


An Eider, A Swan, An Albatross, and A Raven Walk Into Ibiza Bar

by blagtiwitenois



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Birds, Dreaming, Gen, References to The Caretaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blagtiwitenois/pseuds/blagtiwitenois
Summary: Richard Wright makes a fourth-dimension compact, and is set free. Truths are revealed, things fall apart, people reappear out of nowhere. Roger Waters begins to regret his decisions, but has to finish what he started, with much embarrassment.(Put on hold for other story; I think that one's much better)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	1. Wyrm Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Okimhereagian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okimhereagian/gifts).



Richard William Wright was not sure where he was. It was somewhere, but nowhere. Did he care? No, he hadn't cared much in the past year or so. His assertive bandmate looked at him with slitted eyes, like a cat at a lark, waiting to pounce. Did he care? No. The keyboard seemed to have spikes on it now. He hadn't composed anything, or created anything lyrically or vocally. Did he care?

No.

The keys felt like they bled every time they were pressed. He didn't feel anything much. All he felt were a suppressed pain and frustration with himself, mixed with a dash of fear courtesy of Roger. And the other issue, the other elephant in the room, was his wife. Juliette, once a source of love and comfort, was now his enemy, right and inconveniently when Waters tightened his grip on creative processes. It was partially his fault for both of those conflictions, being that he had gotten into drugs and alcohol and fought with Julie too much, over groupies and such, and Roger because he had a lack of motivation (and so did David for his own reasons Rick did not know), letting Roger dawdle away and into a firm control. Combined with his newfound obsession for war and politics and his dead daddy, Rog there had created a massive concoction of an album, which Rick was not too happy to participate in... he didn't want to do anything anymore. Juliette had the kids and wouldn't let him see them, and he decided trying to reach his children and come to an agreement of some kind with Julie was more important than... music business and work. And he was quite a bit mad with Roger, who was forcing him to work on an album he had no interest in, and the fact that Roger didn't recognize that he had problems, and was struggling through a difficult time. Roger was too busy in his realm of the past, from when he was a schoolchild, and the war he barely skirted through (though probably had no memory of, since it ended when he was merely two), and trying to incorporate Syd (again) into _another_ album. Roger was too self-absorbed to see the other band members were frustrated. Maybe Rick _did_ want sympathy, but he wasn't really too sure what he wanted anymore. The days and nights blurred in inebriated states of intoxication, _hiss hiss hiss_ went the spattering lips of Waters, his face blurred horsey or Moai-like, or the radiating anger of Juliette and his children in the nonphysical corner, she an eagle with wings spread behind her over her downy eaglet children, prepared to slash or bite or break bones with a flap. Richard was just a man, if not one who engaged regularly in morally questionable activity. Did this make him subhuman? Maybe... Maybe he was worthless like Roger said, maybe he was a monster or disloyal such as the fervent and sworn comments of Juliette.

Why didn't he think about this before? Why didn't he reflect? Richard returned to the present moment, suddenly swamped and on the verge of feeling... something. But this void of reflection held nothing, just darkness like his life. Did he dig himself into this hole? Was he too flawed for others to tolerate him, with all the sex and drugs was he unable to focus on what was truly important? He needed something, desperately, to grasp onto, solid ground, his physical self, anyone, anything, he would even take Roger (maybe not). But it remained dark, and his mind continued assaulting him, trying to crack through his apathetic barriers. He didn't want to be trapped here with breaching self-hate and guilt, could he please have something?

Please.

And the strangest sensation came over, feeling like a veil of smoothly flowing water, and there was a floor of black tile, stretching out into the void. Along came a pool of water, rippling and bottomless. And then, the tall marble pillar, and the brass bowl of oil which held a brilliant orange and yellow flame, illuminating everything in sight. Lastly, there were four three-dimensional shapes that emerged out of the water. Two rectangular pyramids, a dodecahedron, and an octahedron came out dripping, suspended above the water, floating and bobbing. They produced various tones, warbling in harmony that unnerved him. The 'air' all of a sudden smelled like ozone. An anticipative feeling came over Rick, and he felt as if he were at a crossroads, a major crossroads that could change his life forever. He became a solid form, that being himself, and he did not move, but his eyes roved all over the immaculate details of the fire glinting against the tile, the grooves in the column and the patterns of marble. He felt as if he were an art student scrutinizing a face, looking over all its features, and maybe feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable as its pupils stare into yours. It felt lucid, real. And he felt as if there were entities here, studying _his_ face and self, and even soul and mind if one was willing to talk in psychic terms. Is it the artist studying the face, or the face, essence forever frozen in time by camera, studying the artist? Was Rick the artist or art in this context? He became increasingly nervous, but didn't move. A deer in the headlights.

And the thought he just had, about the eagle, spontaneously resurfaced, and, as if on command, he heard the very "real" sound of wings against the wind. He saw avian figures emerge from the shadows, flying in and massive in scale. They circled around him in a coordinated fashion, and he couldn't do anything. What would they do? Attack him? Kill him? Eat him?

Yet he could not move. Panic began to set in, real fear which was feverish and sharp.

Four birds flew down in a vortex, he being the centerpoint, and they settled down with clicks of their talons, the force of their wings translated to wind blowing in his face. In the light, he could see them clear. They were at least four feet tall, and all had reptilian eyes, with varying builds and colours, eyeing him... with slitted eyes. Their expressions twitched and their gazes darted in a disturbingly human fashion.

"This is the Fourth Dimension," suddenly a voice said, and Rick realized it was one of the birds, pigeon-like, red-eyed, and blue-grey, throat undulating. "We are here to make a deal with you."

"You have made poor life choices," said another, dark blue and white with a long neck. "So have others. We can help you correct all their courses, as well as yours."

"There is a call for unity in this moment," rasped a vulture-like orange avian. "If you do not unify, things will... not turn out optimally."

"We can tell you your ultimatum," Said the final one, a well-striped owl. "Your death is by your life choices."

Rick suddenly loosened, as if released from a straitjacket. He gasped for air. "Just... tell me," he said, combatting his internal thoughts of fear and anger at himself and others.

"You see this?" Said the owl, and a lit cigarette appeared between its talons. "This?" The cigarette transformed into a bottle of liquor. "THIS?" The liquor dissipated into the air as a suspicious white powder that Rick knew all too well. "Stop. If you promise us, we will grant you a wish."

Rick mutely stared at the presentation, and numbly nodded. He knew this was just another convoluted dream caused by his altered mental state, and he probably wouldn't hold up the promise. It was likely another subconscious cry for help... which was concerning, actually. He could understand the alcohol and cocaine, but why cigarettes? He had been smoking most of his life, and didn't really care about those 'studies' that said smoking caused a mess of horrible problems. Just another bizarre dream aspect, he guessed. 

"What is your wish, then?" the large pigeonesque entity inquired.

Peeling his thin lips apart, he prepared to speak:

"I want everything... to be revealed. I want everything to be fixed." He said in a vague sense. Did he care?

Maybe.

"Well then," said the owl. "See you in your... denser reality."

The shapes began to rotate and hum harder, and the ceiling- wait, there was a ceiling this whole time?- flew away.

\------------

 _And we called out for another_ _dri-i-ink_

_And the waiter brought a tray_

The swell of the organ in A Whiter Shade of Pale brought Rick to full lucidity. He was parked against a brick wall somewhere, splayed out and feeling rather wretched. One of his eyes, his nose, and stomach region felt extremely sore, and so did the back of his head. He was in a small alley, garbage bags, litter, and the smell of trash and cigarettes mingling to make an unpleasant scene upon waking. Trying to orient himself, he slithered up the brick wall and staggered around like a fool. The symptoms of a hangover were very clear: searing headache, normal light becoming blinding, nausea, aches and pains made worse by whoever gave him a hard thrashing, and (though self-aware) extreme annoyance and irritability. He could hear some French individuals gasp as he lurched his way aimlessly through the scenely village of Berre-Les-Alpes, and briefly, self-consciously thought about how terrible he must have looked, battered or whatever, and et cetera.. Rick was too irritated to care. He could absolutely not recall what happened last night, the dream seeming to act as a placeholder for reality. The sun abrasively shone through the morning sky. He hated the incessant chirping of those obnoxious brown birds with the graphite-like bills, nor those astoundingly garish key-lime ones. Their slurred chirping melted together with Roger's voice. "No, this! No, that! Do another take, it was too flat. Your contributions have been minimal! Why are you so resistant to following instructions?!" 

He wanted them to stop, and snap their beaks shut, forever. He wanted Roger to be silent for once. He needed the world to stop, stop assaulting him with all these things. It wasn't his fault! None of it! What did he do to deserve it?! Did it matter if he could recall or not!? He couldn't even go to his local source of comfort, the ocean. Typically, Richard enjoyed the sea, but now, he just couldn't take anything. Especially not the sunlight on the water, or the never-ending crying chorus of a swarm of seagulls, nor the sloshing and obtrusive waves. He wouldn't go. He just wanted to be unresponsive and complacent to sensory deprivation.

He finally found Super Bear Studios after staggering some more, came into reception with a half-absent look. The receptionist/sound engineer's gaze, which was rather stoic, turned to that of shock. "...What happened to you?" in a French accent.

Rick didn't bother, in his agonized state, to tell Patrick Jauneaud what had happened, and was swimming in agitation and pain.

Attempting to validate himself, he declared, "Um... uh, Richard Wright, studio......" He suddenly was struck with nausea. "I need to vomit," he said in an urgent manner, and regardless of whether he was allowed in the studio or not, the receptionist quickly directed him to the restrooms. Rick wasted no time rushing to the toilets, and promptly regurgitated acidic and liquid contents, which smelled and tasted disgusting. He felt horrible, he was trapped in a hell of some kind. Vomiting again, he wiped his mouth with toilet paper and slid down the stall, tired and feeling like he was going to pass out. He felt sick, so sick, and wanted to die. That was all. 

That was all.


	2. Nick's Boogie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick gets very confused.

Nick was confused. Very confused. Things seemed to be going out of hand, not things that were in his control, but of others. For one, Roger Waters was off his own very, very strict schedule, and was sitting blankly, colour alternating between a ghostly white and flushed red. Nick could say in definite that Roger was mortified, in whatever way. Bob (Erzin) attempted to evoke his thought processes, but it seemed Roger had lost something in his drive, his soul. His ice-blue eyes were pale and wide and seemingly lucid, but he was unresponsive no matter if it was O'Rourke, Guthrie, previously mentioned Erzin, or any of the band members. Rick didn't show up yesterday for whatever reason, and Roger was flaming mad. Even though Roger was Nick's closest friend in the band, he had to admit that Roger's overbearingness was even a little too much for him, and was slowly dissolving their friendship. Gilmour outright hated Roger, and subsequently expressed his thoughts of the possibility it could be a stunt because of some disagreements about the mix versions. Nick felt that David was overthinking, as Roger looked seriously, physically ill.

Attempts to communicate were met with a sickly, tense silence. With a wave of nausea, Nick paralleled it to Syd... poor, poor Syd. But Roger, though unmoving, looked aware as always, but his gaze was set straight at wood grain. Syd, looked purely absent in his voracious gaze. With a look of resistant frustration on his face, Bob sighed. "I don't know how we'll get today on the road if Roger is... frozen like that, you know he's, er, choosy." Nick, who was glancing over at Roger and half-listening to Bob, clearly saw Roger turn an embarrassed(?) shade of red, but his face was more like a photograph of shock. And Nick could swear that there was light perspiration all over his face in a glossy sheen, adding to his theories of alternating shame and being very, very disturbed. The strange thing was, Roger wasn't supposed to be at Super Bear Studios, but rather Studio Miraval, he scheduled to record vocals today. And considering his animosity towards anyone else's punctuality, or rather lack of it, that betrayed his mandated schedule, something had very strongly thrown him off course.

The other thing was that they found Rick in a lethargic state in the restroom, having vomited everywhere in a restroom stall and looking half-beaten to death, yet he refused to go to the hospital and just cleaned himself up. Currently, he was recovering in the break room in a nearby chair, staring suspiciously at Roger, the center of attention. The loop was all the studio people passing through looked at him for a minute, and then went off, but there was a sparse circle of people that remained consistent through the past hour. He was... some sort of attraction, maybe. He's always an attraction looking like a long, human horse, Nick thought, but he swatted it off. No one had said much, at first there were attempts to contact him from the outside world, but everyone had just drifted off and told newcomers not to disturb him. David hardly cared for previously mentioned reasons, and was off in the studio recording guitar parts for Goodbye Blue Sky. But it was rather slow-moving today, and Nick wondered when Roger would break into action.

After a silent time of contemplation, where Nick wondered why he wasn't being so productive, Patrick came in, holding something wrapped in bird-print wrapping paper. The shape was irregular, and had been slapped together and sealed haphazardly with duct tape.

"Erm...," He said awkwardly. "This is for... Richard Wright, anonymous source." He walked over to Rick and set it aside, being that it was a fairly large object. Rick said in his ever-quiet manner, "Thank you," but stared worriedly at the thing, and didn't open it. He was giving it a visual analysis, squinting, almost a paranoid glint in his eyes.

"I'm- I'm going to work on something now," he announced in a small voice, and took the object and walked briskly out of the break room. Nick could only wonder what was going on, and if it had any kind of correlation between Roger. Time seemed to be distorted, and Nick was trying to remember certain things, and then forgot why he was trying to. When Rick left, things seemed to go at a faster pace within the next few minutes. The settlement of people trickled out of the break room, everyone had having their fill of looking at Roger's psychological disturbance, but Nick remained. He watched Roger, concerned despite the fact that he had been rather disparaging to him in the past few months. He had been his friend, after all, and Nick had to try to forgive him, especially if no one else cared about it.

Soon, it was silent in the break room, Nick watchful and Roger still staring at the table. All of a sudden:

"I can tell you what happened," Roger whispered. Nick, who had been practically falling asleep in the noiseless room, jumped.

"What- yes, do tell, Roger, because people think you're putting up an act. Bob, O'Rourke, David, everyone is rather cross with you holding them up. Explain."

"Well, um... Carolyn and I had- had a nasty conversation on the phone last night... and she, she told he something that I wish I never knew- she told me she wanted a divorce, and I asked her why, and- but, she told me... the children aren't mine, but she had them with... with some MAN-WHORE named JOHN. She told me (in a cracked falsetto mimicking her) "You're too ugly to even consider having children! Why don't you just go fuck off, you HORSE?" And-and now, I have to get a divorce, and she said she never wanted to see me again. She said it was my fault... but... she cheated, not me...? Am I wrong here?"

Nick felt bad instantaneously thinking that Roger looked like a horse.

He had met Carolyn a few times, and thought of her as really lovely, and was confused as to why these sudden changes in character happened with her and their relationship. He would have never expected in a lifetime for anything that bad to occur. Roger was on a roll, what David described as an 'ego trip' more than a few times, and maybe Nick could see why. Roger was domineering, and generated most of the content, and clashed over changes with the producers ferociously and would rarely back down. He regimented his vision and didn't like deviation from the other band members, and had gotten a lot colder in his warpath to create... this thing he had made. Carolyn had definitely speared and incinerated his ego, but also his happiness, and Nick wondered if this destruction also led to other byproducts... such as self-realization and accumulated but unrealized guilt being unleashed.

"...Nick?" Roger said in a very quiet voice, very unlike him between the past few years. "Yes?" Nick inquired, still caught up in his speculations, but also carefully observing Roger's actions and words.

"I'm.... I apologize." Roger said, solemnly and motionless, looking distraught. "I'm sorry to everyone. I... I don't want to do this. I... just feel so guilty now, I don't know why I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have done in everyone like that, I've just... I can't rationalize what I did." Nick realized he was wearing a surprised expression, because Roger rarely apologized to anyone, and receiving one was like... being knighted? Roger was staring at him with an unbearable amount of self-admonishment in his eyes, and then Nick felt bad for being surprised, because that would make Roger feel even worse. But Nick had to admit, Roger did need some sobering. Nick began to feel uncomfortable as Roger quickly looked away and buried his head in his hands and was making small, suffering noises, but Nick sat there and watched, graceless as a fish floundering on the land.

This was very dream-like. Maybe it was a dream, just some subconscious idealization.

"I hate this album," Roger said. "I need to fix this. I need help. I can't do this anymore, because it makes me feel awful just thinking about it. No Points for Erzin?! Do I have the maturity of a child?" He sighed. "I'm not making strides here. This is like... a solo album. I don't want that... What kind of message is this? Politics? What was I thinking?..." He continued muttering loose thoughts of self-directed frustration for quite a while, and muttering recollections of things he did from an antagonistic point of view, like a plaintiff and lawyer at a trial presenting evidence against the defendant.

"We need collaboration, some unity. I need to apologize to everyone." With his newfound agenda, Roger slowly began to break out of his incapacitated state, and Nick watched him get up and go out. Well, then. That was... very unusual. Nick looked around, the silence of the room all-consuming. He was grateful his children were his own... he couldn't imagine what kind of horrifics Roger was going through. Nick sat in contemplation for a few minutes on what he had just heard, and he felt another chain of events was soon to ensue when he saw Wright walk in with something that looked like it came out of a totem pole, a stylized sculpture of a bird screaming. There was a tag dangling off of it. "What's that, there?" Nick questioned. Rick looked panicked, and kept on blinking repeatedly.

"It's, it's a sculpture, I do believe," Rick said hastily, and was reading the tag (which was sized more like a birthday card) and had a crude picture of four birds on the front, with party hats and holding balloons, dementedly scribbled in ballpoint pen. It read in scratchy writing, "CONGRATULATIONS RICHARD!!!"

As far as Nick knew, nothing significant had happened in the life of Richard Wright, nothing very positive at least, and he could tell this wasn't positive portending from the look on Rick's face: Pure fear and horror. He didn't want to be too invasive, but then inquired Rick, "What's that about?" "Umm... uh...." Rick droned in a higher register than usual. "I had a dream last... night." A dream? What did that have to do with anything? Nothing, for sure, because dreams... weren't real. Of course, Nick had had coincidences in his lifetime, like being in places he'd never been to, and then seeing them in real life, but nothing too high of a caliber. Rick shoved him the card, to Nick's surprise. "Read it," he said. While he began to read it, Rick began to detail his dream.

_**Hello Richard Wright! We were pleased to meet you last night. We hope our services are working accordingly. We have altered some people's states of consciousness, and made other people nonexistent, but nothing too much. Your wish is in the works, but we think you might choose to be a little more specific next time- I think SOMEBODY (ahem, Dorian) may have gone a little too overboard and decided to, actually nevermind that, you'll see it later about your wish. I mean, not that we can do that, we're semi-malevolent, sorry about that.** _

Nick began to pale as the blank space began writing itself:

**_Well, hello... Nick Mason. You are in a dream._ **

He looked around, and noticed that everything was and noiseless. Rick was frozen, his vague but penetrating gaze looking at Nick expectantly, one leg crossed over the other in a posh fashion, long eyelashes immaculate in the light from behind him coming from the window. So it _was_ a dream.

 ** _These events are foretold, don't forget. This is proto-realisim, you know? This is not a drill (a reference to something that will totally not happen in the_ ** **_unaltered future, ha ha we laugh at your three-dimensional minds constricted by time and space). This is a summarization of the things that will unfold in front of you. Nick, we visited Richard in the fourth dimension. Wishes are permanent. You should be careful around the others. Especially Roger. We are going to make him repent. We are the birds of repentance. You'll see. You'll see, Nicholas. Just you wait._**

**_P.S.: We promise nothing will come about to you. Maybe._ **

The whole structure began to warp and distort, fuzzing out in dull green static, and light came and penetrated through his eyelids. The first thing he noticed was a rank smell... bitter, sewage, vinegar, something nasty.

Nick squinted as he opened his eyes, having fallen asleep in the break room due to the fact he temporarily lived at the studio. He was roused by a certain smell, something familiarly sickening.

_Is.... Is that vomit?_

It was sometime in the morning, and Nick decided to walk over reception to investigate. However, on his way there, the smell became unbearable and seemed to come from the restrooms, and he could hear several people exclaiming and other noises. Preparing himself for even worse olfactory suffering, he took a deep breath and went inside.

_OH.... that SMELL._

That scent was clearly regurgitated stomach contents, Nick prayed it wasn't from anyone whose job was to play keyboards. Nick made a visible grimace in reaction, and came into view of the chaotic scene of a sound engineer and another guy he wasn't top familiar with, ducked inside an open navy-blue stall, and someone's splayed body was seen sticking out from under it. He was worried _now_ , if not by default when he first smelled it.

_DO NOT let that be Rick. I will physically melt if that nightmare is rearing its ugly head._

"Hullo? Hullo? Richard Wright? Wake up. Wake UP," said the sound engineer in a (slightly amusing) French accent.

If he could embody what terror he was feeling, it would be temporary death. _Oh my. Oh no._ This was boundlessly worse than the time he had a practical joke played on him where he was a bit late, they were serving pie, and they left him exclusively the crust- while knowing full well that was the part he always left out.

 _No. No thank you, I will now remove myself from this situation, just- just embody the invisible drummer._ Even his thoughts were stuttering.

Nick shuddered (not only at the smell) and felt nauseated himself (also not completely from the smell). He walked briskly, straight out of proximity, outside to breathe the freshest air he had ever known. As before, it wasn't just the vomit that was suffocating, but the coincidence. He was perpetually bothered by that repulsive perfume of a depressed keyboardist's vomit, as it was nasty _and_ gave him a reminder of the ominous warnings. Nick speculated that Rick had drunk himself half to death, considering he knew Rick had a spectrum of problems right now, such as a drug and alcohol problem, and a marriage and custody one to accompany, like a lovely string quartet.

He melted into the building where there was _no_ such smell, and had a breakfast at the cafeteria. Despite not having eaten during sleep, he didn't feel hungry even for the light and standard meal provided (coffee, fruit, a slice of toast with butter and/or jam) and absentmindedly prodded the berries with his fork as he reminisced about the bizarre dream. The first thing had already happened. Was it just his mind conjuring a nightmarish scenario? He could immediately tell it was a dream when Roger told him he didn't want to engage on his very own album anymore. But there Waters would be, at Studio Miraval, following his schedule til the end of time.

Unless something happened... and of course, nothing has happened (besides vomit) yet....


	3. The Psychological Torture Begins, You Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our beloved bastard Moai, previously hatefully mentioned, gets a smackdown (the first of many). And following the last two chapters, of course it's a dream!

The co-producers were not at Super Bear to see the stomach contents of Rick Wright spill in the bathroom stall next to the sink, but rather in line and punctual at Studio Miraval to the north, waiting expectantly and nervously for the headman of Pink Floyd to enter and unleash his strained and high-pitched voice upon the microphones. Of course, the headman role was unofficial, but rather slow and "merituitous" coup d'état via Roger's unlimited concepts and his efficient execution of those ideas in writing. The man, however, forgot about a little thing called 'collaboration' and 'democracy', and was mean to Bob. Being Bob Erzin, one of these producers. Bob had the standard control of a producer _and_ more, having lenient controls, but was warring with James Guthrie, his fellow producer, and the (big man pig man) brains of the project, Waters. Waters even made _badges_ mocking Bob, with the acronyms NOPE on them, standing for 'No Points For Erzin,' which was belittling his inferior amount of input. Erzin didn't exactly appreciate that. He was hurt, but Roger didn't care with his elementary-school (or rather, "primary school" if Roger was going to pretend that the British were superior to Canadians) maturity, being so egotistical he thought it was funny. But really, all Roger was was a pest, and with enough backlash pesting, Bob could bend Waters to his will. Bob usually noticed things about Waters, but today he doesn't notice the unnerved aura Roger has, particularly about a certain dream he had last night. If Waters would tell Erzin, Bob would get him back and mock him for being scared by nightmares.

Roger didn't think it was funny at all.

It started out with him going to sleep. This was standard routine, as always. The day was a bit unusual, being that all the band members were recording at studio B in Super Bear, and not scattered I'm various sub-studios or having Roger be busy at Miraval. It was a matter of supervision, for Roger to see if things were going all well. It was _okay_ overall, waking quality being degraded with annoyances with things called David and Richard, one protesting that there should be an extended vibrato here, a c-sharp and not an F here, and then Roger couldn't take it when Gilmour wanted to revise FOUR FUCKING MEASURES, which sounded particularly ugly to Roger's ears (never mind he was partially tone-deaf, and embarrassingly, had to have his bass tuned by the thing called Richard), and threw off the whole song. With much heated arguing and bringing in the producers in a debate, the guitarist who couldn't even write his own lyrics won, and ruined Roger's song. He hated when Gilmour won, it seemed like he always won and always soiled a perfectly good lyric or composition, and then demanded co-writing or co-compositioning credits. And then, the second obnoxious mosquito, which was Wright, was in a half-comatose state and wasn't even listening when Roger was giving him a _BASIC OVERVIEW_ of what he was to be playing. The chords weren't hard, the note configurations weren't that complex, it was only a dash of sixteenth notes in a sea of quarters and eighths! He generously gave Wright the music he had taken the pain to write, and all the drooling cat did was slowly blink his hundred-foot long eyelashes and not move! At least Nick was tolerable, but Roger still had to correct him a bit, admittedly a bit too harshly at one time, and felt slightly guilty when Nick gave him a irritated look. But it _was_ justified, even if his intonations came out wrong.

Roger then went home and did his nightly routine, then went to sleep.

So, it was when he fell asleep that things began to go even _more_ downhill. Roger estimated that, predictably, for the first few hours he fell into a deep sleep, but was expecting less rest than usual because of his losses of the day, and therefore R.E.M, which was dreaming. He didn't have dreams often, but was having more so, and being consumed by his projects, they tended to be about war, or maybe seeing his father (he enjoyed those), or recreated arguments with the band, and/or Erzin and Guthrie, that turned surrealistic. His dreams were sometimes lucid, so he could talk to his father in rationale, or make fun of the studio people in ways he could never in real life. His father's responses strangely happened to be sensical and rather philosophical, and Roger sneaked them into his lyrics these days.

After an unknown period of deep sleep, Roger surfaced into the dreamworld. Tonight, he was standing in a field of golden grass and poppies, and was happy to see a familiar figure come towards him.

"Hello, Roger," His dad said. He was always in black-and-white compared to the rest of the dream, due to the fact Roger never saw his photograph in colour.

Roger had a visible smile. "Hello, Dad," he said. It always felt like a lost part of his childhood, as if he were a schoolboy coming up to his father every day after primary, those years where your parents are godly and perfect. His father was dressed in war attire. Even though at this point Roger was older then his dad when he died, Eric Fletcher Waters radiated an aura of wisdom Roger felt he would never come to surpass, or match for that matter.

"What do you wish to know?" Asked his father. Roger had never seen him ask that automatically, but he guessed it was a habit of the subconscious father now. It was interesting to see the dream entity learn. Strangely, Roger was stumped. He just stared there in silence appreciatively, trying to think of something, but feeling blocked by a suspiciously external force. He furrowed his brow in concentration, but he just couldn't think. This led to a bizarre kind of distress in Roger. Didn't he always have things to ask, have things to say? The dream world began to dim, and Roger tried to hold on in desperation, and what happened next could be a translation of that:

After a minute, he was alarmed as his father turned... _angry._

"So, George?! What do you have to say?! _Nothing!_ Nothing, that's what!" Roger withdrew, and became frightened as his voice fused with... Syd's? 

"You _think_ you have done so much, yet you have done **NOTHING!** " Screamed the thing that was his father, and Roger became genuinely scared as the flesh off his face began to burn off, turning a gory charred red, eyes becoming slits, melting, screaming, running towards Roger. Yet Roger was incapacitated, and there he was, frozen, thinking "It's all a dream, it's all a dream," but _seeing_ this entity in vivid detail coming to do unknowable horrors to him, and it was so close, so close and its claws reached out and- Roger screamed. He screamed a ghastly, unearthly, long, scraping, ear-melting scream. The figure instantly dissolved into a white dove, which seemed to be glowing. The dove, a symbol of peace, and Roger was shaken, but fear was quieted by this... dove. And he began contemplating on the dove, which was making joyful and boundless circles and dives through the skies, agile in a comet-like streak, angular wings slicing through the dream's air, and it felt so fresh and misty. He was surprised to see a metallic sheen on the bird, but became concerned as the bird began jaggedly expanding, beginning to futilely flap as blood began pouring out of its throat, and soon emergent metal edges appeared, and the vaguely bird shape grew larger and larger. It was the size of a small airplane by this time, literally slicing through the air with feathers like enormous knives, and the air screamed and began bleeding rain. It was raining, and Roger was nervous yet again. No, he was shaking. He was shaking terrified.

And he realized it was too late, as the bird's outstretched talons, glinting steel coming towards him, closer, closer, and in his face, grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him, up, up, up- Choking as he bled through the sickle-talons mangling his shoulders, the oxygen became less and less, and he began to see things, things indescribable and colors no mortal man should ever see, and memories of others, the future, the past, fragments and snippets of everything compressed into the ten futile seconds Roger had. It was bearing down on him, and he felt like he was going mad, going to implode, going to truly die forever and never wake up-

He was pulled past an invisible barrier with a vacuum-like noise, and was dropped, falling, the information he had just received falling out of his mind and back into the liminal space, the forbidden information remaining confidential. Roger, having forgotten everything, was merely shaken and not driven mad. But there he was falling, and hit hard on an imaginal base in an infinite void. The giant bird, soaring high above him, began to emit creaking and screeching noises, and fire erupted from its mouth. It proceeded to explode into four neat parts, and those parts became four organic birds. They flew down to the ground and in front of him. By this time, he couldn't trust anything. He heard a speaking voice:

"We are the birds of retribution, George Roger Waters." With that context, Roger looked down at the birds and realized they were speaking. He thought they looked familiar, and with much ire identified them as an albatross, an eider, a swan, and a raven.

"Ah, we see. You recognize us," said the raven. "I look for vantage points and close in on you."

"I'll be gone," said the swan.

"I hang motionless upon the air overhead," said the albatross.

"And I let you lie on my down," said the eider.

Roger snorted. "And? What's the point of these puns?"

"We're here to psychologically torture you," bluntly said the eider.

Roger looked at them disdainfully. "How distasteful," he said. "I didn't ask, and I don't particularly enjoy being tormented by nightmares."

"Richard Wright requested us to do so," the raven said. "Well, not really, we approached him, and we were all like (imitating the albatross' voice): "Halooo Richard, would _you_ like a wish because your bandmate doesn't treat you fairly???" And he said yes, because he was so intoxicated that even in his _dreams_ he's unresponsive! And then he was sad and wished for the most generic thing possible: for _everything_ that was problematic for him to be fixed. Of course, he didn't elaborate, so we're interpreting that and filling in the blanks! Starting with his _wife_ and _kids_ , and now you! You are a lucky recipient of fourth-dimensional fixing, being manipulation of everyone around you that's not integral. We'll give you proof: In a few hours' time, Richard will begin vomiting profusely due to the fact he drunk so much. Not any of our faults, we move freely across space and time, that's all. And, things having to do with your wife, Carolyn, and your children, which... may or may not be our faults, we can't be too specific, no?"

"Wait, what are you doing?!-" Roger tried to ask angrily, but was cut off when everything faded into waking hours. There Waters was, a bit shaken, and a bit nervous about continuing his work on the album due to the nightmarish associations he had freshly acquired, but ready for another day of _high quality_ work. Already, he was beginning to question his foundations... but not too much. 

The birds would continue.

Throughout the day, Bob noted that, weirdly, that Waters had less gusto than usual, and was swerving his head around a lot, with a suspicious look on his face. The increased sensitivity of Waters would spike every time the telephone rang, and he would freeze and blanch, for whatever reason. Waters moved somewhat less like a rooster, as well, and was more or less like a crane, just a little. Maybe it was a vacillating introversion caused by some outside force. Bob had to admit that Roger had more quiet days, but today was especially silent, and with a new smooth nervousness from him, made Bob wonder. His input was more allowing, and Bob thought he argued less today, leaving him and Guthrie to fight over the edits like two vultures (however unflattering the analogy, it was the most accurate). Either Roger was in trouble, or cheating on his wife and anxiously expecting a date. Who knew...


	4. Radio Chaos Is Cleared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was either me or him!  
> And a voice said, Roger!  
> You fucked the whole thing up  
> Roger, your time is up  
> Your time is up.

The disastrous argument with Roger yesterday had, fortunately, had turned out in David's favour. And the producers even agreed with him, this time. It was particularly amusing to see Waters throw a hissy fit, and he had, once again, gone off to skulk after last night's losses. 

"I'm done with you three!" Roger said, one finger apiece on his right hand directed at the two producers and David in an accusing manner. He could always be so petulant these days. David watched him with bemusement, like a puppy doing something defaultly futile. This change was necessary for the album. Roger was being too complacent in composition, and it would sound better with the change-up. The man was incredibly brash, especially because he treated this Pink Floyd album like a solo album. Admittedly, he did write all of the content- but didn't want it to be changed. Pink Floyd was in a disparaging situation and needed content for an album immediately. Rick had nothing, David (unfortunately) had nothing, and Nick... rarely had anything, so no one looked at him. No offence Nick, you're a great, um, drummer. The problem was, Roger was treating his demos like precious jewels, and didn't want them to be scored or scratched by collaboration (which is what a band is about). He had done the same thing on Animals, however, he was more lenient, but blocked the workflow due to 'corrections' and more constriction. Now, he prevented not only the lyrics from being changed, but his compositions, too. And, instead of collaborating with his band members, he hired not one, but two producers to help him, as if to replace the three other band members, who were perfectly decent musicians. Rick had quietly lamented once about his suspicion that Roger was going to replace them, one by one, and keep the Pink Floyd name. David could only wonder sometimes.

Usually, David didn't mind Roger having a lot of control, nor did he mind the producers. He found the album's concepts to be rather well-versed and brilliant, and sometimes found himself admiring Roger's penmanship (David was embarrassed to say that his writings were not as near impactful), but composition was more than a bit off. The sound was probably meant to have the same 'sound/feel', but ended up having they same keys, tempos, or unintentional repetitions, and David found himself more than justified to reconstitute the notes. However, Roger got pissed at that as well, and the producers were more compelled towards Roger's vision and as the tune a mere vehicle for the lyrics, and David never got his contributions in. Of course, Erzin was a saving grace because he helped navigate and negotiate, and began leaning towards Gilmour's argument after Roger began making those N.O.P.E. badges and tossing Erzin around like a lowlife. Roger was getting angrier and angrier every time they met and argued over things that David din't even consider worth saving.

("Why is there an extra note here?"

"I thought it would sound better."

"Roger, you do realize that it will throw the whole beat of the song off, unless if you would like to change it to five-fourths time?"

"I know, David, I'm not some musical philistine, nor am I a knuckle dragger. You haven't contributed anything, what makes you justified to think you can deface my song?"

"You are a philistine if you've forgotten the definition of contribution!" and so on.)

That argument was it. Although the same kind of scenario had occurred many, many times before, this episode of Roger the Brat had made David's gears turn. Why not argue back? Why not actually contribute song content and not fight over Roger's pitiful turf? David could do it on his own. He had to say, everyone was pressuring him into writing something. The same kind of process in the previous albums. He carved out ninety percent of Dogs, anyways, securing him a nice half of the album. The band didn't need all of Roger's junk. Swap out bits and parts here, until it was equivalent to equality. Despite his penmanship and fleshed out ideas, there were quite a few weak points David could reinforce. 

Between recording parts for Goodbye Blue Sky, David convinced the hot, young, and wide-eyed producer James Guthrie, man on-duty, to change a few things in his parts. "Just don't tell Waters and hopefully he won't notice," shrugged off Gilmour as Guthrie expressed his concerns over swapping out E and G to F and D, and alternate D with E, and bringing the other C back up to F with another half-measure, small things like that. Really, David was just spiting Waters and hopefully either, A. he wouldn't' notice and everyone could snicker behind his back, or B. he'd become completely livid and then David could laugh at Roger openly. Maybe he could plant the seed of rebellion in the others...

David was also done with Roger because he abused Rick, completely ignorant to his toil. David had fault in that, too, expressing his annoyance the keyboardist's, not lack of contribution, but lack of action. Wright was absent sometimes without notice, and then someone, David, Roger, the producers, session musicians, whatever, would have to fill in, making it quite a bit more expensive having to add and redistribute credits, and therefore money, everywhere. Combined with the fact that Rick was still demanding credits. But still, Richard was having a lot of issues, issues David could count on one hand... if he had, maybe, twenty fingers. Gilmour knew that Rick was _trying_ to contribute, but everyone had their eyes on Rick when he tried to produce, or generate some kind of content. Roger mandated the supervision on Rick, and watched Rick himself, making Rick prone to slip-ups and anxiety. Gilmour thought it would be a much better method to leave him be to do his own thing, come back and review it. He was already planning to negotiate with Roger, because he was burying Rick alive and Gilmour wasn't going to just watch and see it happen. Today, David was passing through when Rick was recording, and he did look a little more off-put than usual. He was playing like mad, forcefully and so, and seemed to be on edge. Maybe he was still in some throes of embarrassment or pain or _something,_ after, of course, ending up in the restrooms, vomiting at 7am after barging in on a pleasant, early morning. David, fortunately, was recording at seven, and therefore had not known what was going on until the smell penetrated his isolation chamber, or when the engineers rocketed out of their booths towards reception. David, not wanting to know what happened, especially contextualized with the ungodly smell of stomach acid mixed with alcohol, remained stationary and was fiddling with his guitar awkwardly while he waited for the engineers to return.

As David was discussing switch-ups with Guthrie, the receptionist came in. Engrossed in their secretive conversation, the two jumped, in paranoia expecting the big bad Waters, but it was merely Patrick. "Phone for you, David," he notified, and David set down the guitar, and nodded at Guthrie. 

"Savez-vous qui ils sont?" ' _Do you know who they are?,'_ asked David as they walked down the foyer and pushed back several doors.

"Non, ils ont juste demandé David Gilmour," _'No, they just demanded David Gilmour.'_

The telephone at the front desk rang incessantly, and so David picked it up. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Hello, David." The voice was confusing, not descriptively male or female, mid-pitched, " _We_ are going to make Roger repent. If he ever tells you about his dreams, that is us."

"Er... What?" David furrowed his brow as he looked around in confusion. "Excuse me, but is this a prank call?"

"No. If you see people behaving erratically, that'll tell you it's us. You saw Wright, hm? We visited him, too."

David was worried.

"You're the last one to receive this message. No harm will befoul you or Nicholas Mason, but we have other plans for Roger. You and the others are the beneficiaries."

"What... what are you even talking about?" David was clearly unnerved. "What are you going to do?"

"Slight modifications," said the person over the phone. "By the way, I say you should stop smoking. In a decade, it's going to be proven carcinogenic."

"Um.... what?-"

The dial tone sounded, leaving David confused and as on-edge as Rick seemed to be.

"It was.... some kind of prank call," he told the receptionist. "I'm not sure."

A few hours later, during lunch break, David approached Rick, who seemed to wither away from his presence. 

"...yes?" Rick inquired him.

"Er. Okay. I received some kind of prank call today, or something like that, and they were rambling about dreams and you were all about it, and also cryptic messages about making Roger repent- any idea?"

Rick had unrestrained fear in his expression, and an attempt to recompose himself resulted in a distorted face comparable to Picasso. His eyes were darting all around.

"I'm being too obvious, amn't I?" he said quaveringly. "Well... I'll tell you about it."

To Gilmour's confusion, Rick began spilling extravagant details about a vivid dream with birds in it, and they allowed him to make a wish and strange things like that. Gilmour made comparisons to the call, and how the person mentioned things about the _future_. At that point, when Nick came out of _his_ recording session for lunch, it was obligatory that they cornered him, and asked him simultaneously, "Did you have a dream last night?"

"Well, yes, and it was very bizarre," reminisced Nick, and re-crafted his experience of a strange dream where Roger had an unrealistic mental breakdown and Rick was given a sculpture with a congratulations card or whatever; the card began writing itself and so-so. He also mentioned that the birds tried to convince him they were real by foretelling of Richard spilling his guts, and then _that_ being true. So now, all the band members were aware except the isolated and semi-oblivious Roger Waters, who was exactly the target... Oh, the things he was to suffer for.


	5. We'll Make It Just A Burning Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headaches, heartaches  
> Doing this to you meant only headaches  
> That torture was something brutal for we  
> We made it so, it's just a burning memory  
> Heartaches, headaches  
> What does it matter how your mind breaks  
> You'll be happier with history made anew  
> But my heart aches for you

The birds knew that, really, they needed a plan. Dorian, the eider, decided that it was best to take the extreme route- other, more subtle plans fell flat on their face when tested in simulation. Trying to get the members to negotiate? No, even trying to possess the producers resulted in even more tensions. Coracks (the raven) even attempted to puppeteer Waters, but was rather disheartened when trying to do so. His ego was so _frothy_ and _toxic,_ it created an acidic aura that prevented higher beings from even going near him. It was rather repulsive. They're tired of their frustrations, and decided to head straight for a soul-crushing alteration. Using careful maneuvering techniques as to not damage anything else in history. Do this, don't do that, change that up, add that in there. They felt a little bad for what they were about to do to George Roger Waters, but oh well. It had already been set in motion. They delivered premonitions like mail, _just_ gave Waters an EAS, as his personal life was about to be ruined. What could they say? It was now truth that Carolyn was carrying a burden, a burden of guilt, and the line tips now for her, hearing about her husband's behavior. You don't advocate in war topics. Get done and get over with it, like any other album. It's just a piece of music. You're destroying relationships for your own selfish reasons, you stupid, stupid horse!

They descend to the third dimension, Coracks landing in a young English oak, leaves shimmering quietly in the dark breeze. The bird takes the time to look at the strange and dense plane of reality, and it admires the human constructs- the street, the gardens, the lampposts. The other three settle on alternative vantage points, being waterfowl and seabirds, unevolved to to perch on branches. It's nightfall, typical night noises abounding, the motley quartet about to commit some four-dee 'ultra-violence' of the psychological kind. They stalked around the Waters residence, gleaning information from their surroundings. The crickets chirped with smug ire, as they know what kind of deranged actions are going to take place on this fine hour of nine p.m., the sweet spot between where Carolyn puts the children to bed and where she herself falls into slumber. She's finishing a round of proprietary cleaning, and is about to settle in for the night, haunted by her thoughts. She's already done the major executions, having filed passports and established divorce papers, having changed her name and dyed her hair, sold the home and et cetera. She's taking the kids, disappearing. She doesn't expect Waters til April, when it becomes taxually mandated by the record label to 'git out', meaning get out of the UK.

The birds don't want to make Waters pissed, but rather depressed, so Coracks arms itself for the venom-spitting exploit the bird's about to embark on. The others are there in backup since Coracks is the possession expert, but if anything goes wrong, they're present to assist.

"Wish me luck," crows Coracks, and spreads black wings. The corvid lands and meanders back and forth on the windowsill, tapping the glass until the woman notices. She furrows her brow, seeing the bemused raven. Using its vocal imitation skills, Coracks communicates:

"Hello."

This charms and frightens Carolyn, who curiosity is piqued. She approaches, and she is in sufficient range. Before she can realize, the black bird has phased through the glass in dimensional distortion, and takes control of her body, e.g. possession. Coracks now finds itself in the body of the human woman, and promptly adjusts. She (now) takes a deep breath, and observes her surroundings, trying to get around this front-viewed vision, which lack of side view, no peripheral back view, and dull colors extravagantly bothers Coracks. Being able to move eyes in their sockets was a benefit, however. Taking advantage of the new feature, Coracks searches around, searching for the phone. Having studied intensively what a phone looks like, she finds it confusing that telephones come in white, as the only images of telephones she'd seen were red, and therefore it takes longer to associate that enamel-textured lump with a telephone, having only found it by the wire.

The next obstacle is trying to remember how a rotary phone works... those phones of the future (compared to the present) will be significantly more efficient, not that the birds ever used them. Why use phones when you have advanced telepathy? Gears turning for a minute, the basic idea melted into Coracks' head again, and she navigates the rotary dial awkwardly, remembering the number more than well, nine here, seven there, two... whatever. The number goes into some big telephone system and all the way to France, where Waters should be to pick it up.

Coracks is stockpiling hatred, something that she's only capable of while inhabiting the third dimension. The hatred is, of course, superficial, but it's easy enough to malleate the separate mind of Carolyn into being angry at Roger, some act that can convince even seasoned behaviour analysts. As expected, the line picks up, and the _obnoxious_ and _intolerable_ voice of Waters, that whiny son-of-a-finch comes on the phone and whinnys:

"Who is this?"

" _Carolyn,"_

"Hello, Carolyn. How are you?"

Coracks pauses to create a context of tension, and then says in the phone,

"I'm sorry, Roger." "Carolyn's" voice is made to quiver in anger, unstable and hissing..

"Sorry for what?" confusedly (with a tinge of nervousness) asks the man, likely thinking of the dream the birds gave him and assorted box-of-chocolates vague warnings.

"You know, I just find you _less_ and _less_ tolerable each and every day. The things I've heard, the sheer burden of the weight I've had to carry, and _then_ I hear over the phone, your engineer Dorian Eider, tells me you've been pissy and contrived, rude and lamenting, with the maturity of a schoolboy! That's it. That's the final cut (Coracks internally snickered), the final stab in the back from you to me. And I just want to let you know, the kids aren't yours, they should thank the gods, because I don't think _anyone_ would want to look as repulsive as you do. My children have a proud father named John, and we're going to move in with him. In fact, I have had a divorce with you, sold the house, changed my name and the kids', and have moved to another country. Do not contact me again, or you will be arrested. If you ever find me, I will have you terminated. "

"What the fu-"

" _Waters_ , this is your penalty. My final message: You look like a disastrous hybrid between an equine of some sort, and an Easter Island head. Goodbye, horsey bastard."

Coracks heard a brief shout on the phone, and hung up quickly, gleefully. Roger could come back, and a sense of urgency was imminent. Now, to perform the transplant of memories, emotions, and commence de-possession. After the process was complete, the bird could see Carolyn acting agitated, as if it were her own independent thought and not something conjured. She was packing up, getting out. However, the simulation test was still running, and they had affected base reality. No going back now. Well, technically, being a fourth-dimensional being able to time-travel as easily as one walks, but it would ruin the fun.

Flying back up in the tree, Coracks lands and inquires the swan (name Sigmund), "Any news?"

"Well, Waters had a panic attack (snort) and fainted. Good for us, you know. Do you suspect it's time for some infiltration? Let's get him to come 'round." The other birds have a hearty laugh, and then nod in agreement. Sigmund does a large dimensional fold to the 3-D spacial area of Berre-Les-Alpes, where Waters had passed out in his temporary residence. Crowding outside the window, they peered inside, and sure enough, there was the man on the floor, receiver just out of his hand. They're snickering like mischievous fledglings, because Waters, who always tried to be imposing, but like any other man, was vulnerable as a rabbit in the open grass, being watched by a harrier. Though none of the birds are the powerful birds-of-prey, this moment sure does make them feel like it.

"Stage of sleep?" Dorian asks, and Sigmund squints for a second. "Er, still R.E.M. Dreamless. Commence dream executions, Coracks." Coracks gets down to business, and like with Carolyn, phases through the window in an intrudely fashion. The toxic barrier that is Roger's inflated ego stings the bird's eyes, and as it phases in the window, cringes as the unpleasant sensations wash over. Soon, Coracks can't bear to trudge through the fumes of egality, and transitions to the liminal space, hovering over the body. Coracks' feet are no eagle talons, but they get the job done of snatching Waters by one claw and throwing him up into the Fourth Dimension. A faint scream is heard just as Waters moves out of earshot and into the higher realm. Coracks can't help but crack up. Falling back into the third dimension and flying around the perches of the waiting three, croaking: "Get up, quick!"

Complying, the three others vanish into thin air, and so does Coracks, leaving a misty and chilly night all in silence.

Meanwhile, in the vast spaces of the fourth dimension, there becomes a ruckus as the birds close in on a bewildered and a begrieved Roger, who was still reeling in his losses from a few moments ago.

"Poor, poor Roger," says Parfol (the albatross). "His wife left him, his bandmates hate him... Oh, whatever could be the cause?"

Roger was incapacitated on purpose, so he couldn't respond with some kind of convoluted point of view.

"Of course! It's _him_! He's too blind to even notice the destruction he's caused!" the albatross announced, straight to Roger's face. "It must hurt, knowing the truth! What kind of world do you see through your lens? Why are you so inclined to see it that way?"

Parfol cruelly paused, as if he was expecting an answer from Roger. "I see," he continued. "Do you want to know what happens in the future, hm? I'll tell you. If nobody intervenes, you're going to fire your dear keyboardist, destroy all relationships with the band, file lawsuits because you want to puppy-guard the Pink Floyd name! You'll permanently destroy the relationships with your dear friends. Now, Waters, everyone will end up hating you, and the next time you'll meet is in **_TWO THOUSAND AND FIVE_. **You're depressed and anxious dinosaurs by then, my good equine. And, we have set up a nice multimedia display of resentment for you.

From nowhere, materialized the Division Bell. Roger had no concept of it, but thought it looked vaguely like a Pink Floyd album.

They make him listen to What Do You Want From Me. The birds enjoy the music, but it's clear Waters recognizes the context.

"Yes, that is Gilmour talking about you, not some manager. Under the name Pink Floyd, along with Nick Mason and Richard Wright. Without you, being that you're fiddling away on some war-oriented project of yours that you'll be thinking 'it's incredibly genius'. Especially because you'll call their previous, future album 'rubbish nonsense'. Ha, ha. Talk about Radio Kaos."

Roger looks incredibly tortured right now.

"And the last song they made." And that was put on the record player, echoing out melancholy lyrics and (future) David Gilmour's voice. The song is some kind of ultimatum, but the final message is: we never got back together, but we can still remember the past, as that's what counts.

"Did you know Rick is the first to die? Lung cancer. Better get him to stop smoking now. We're not omniscient: the future hasn't happened, but in other worlds it has. Not at the same time, however. The farthest in the future is two thousand and twenty; by then you're still not dead, nor is Gilmour or Mason, you and David refusing to talk over your disputes from forty years past. Nick, as always, would like you to return, but you'll be so deep in politics, like up to your neck, a radical left-wing. Change that now, friend, and the future will be better for everyone. We'll return you to the third dimension after this last show, from Richard Wright, nineteen ninety-six:"

Tuning the interspacial-temporal radio to 11.8.1996, specific location receiver in London. During this 'present' time, the two communicatives didn't know they were being tapped into by multidimensional life-forms, but still Rick of unaltered times had his wheels of memory turning, speculating just a bit if Roger would ever hear him... if he would just listen, right now. Rick didn't like the tensions, but he didn't like Roger and wanted to make some amends, even if it was just going to result in parting ways...

The radio hums with static and fades in, with the voice of a radio interviewer:

The birds are listening, they've heard this one before, but it always makes them sad, of all the things past. And so, the interviewer introduces Wright to a touchy question:

"Barrett is undoubtly the dark side of the Pink Floyd, but your quarrel with Waters is just as dark. How, actually, do two people who know each other from childhood, fight about music?"

They hear the ever-recognizable voice of Richard Wright:

"It's a story that I'm not really happy to get into. We fought during 'The Wall,' which was an album Waters wrote, based on his family story, but we clashed long before that, during the period of the Dark Side and Wish You Were Here. Actually, we never got along. But it was in The Wall that Roger really lost his mind. He was convinced that he is Pink Floyd and that he doesn't need me nor Nick Mason. I wasn't in a state to argue about that, because we were financially ruined. I made a decision and left, and then he left, and I came back. Since then, he's mad at all of us." The interview immediately pursues the tail end of the answer with:

"And you haven't spoken since then?"

Wright is not hesitant to answer, facing it head on:

**"** We're not speaking for 14 years. Since The Wall. David Gilmour doesn't speak to him either. We had a legal quarrel with him concerning the name Pink Floyd, and in the end we were left with the name, and he was left with the Wall. But if I see him tomorrow in the street, I think I'll make contact with him and invite him to a drink. I'm interested in knowing how he feels and what he thinks about the band." Interviewer parries with Wright's sword with another inquiry:

"Is there any chance that Waters might ever return to the band?"

Wright back up and slows down.

**"** There's always a chance. Everyone who loves Pink Floyd wants it to happen. But I don't feel I need it, not musically and not personally. Maybe if Roger comes back as a different person-" Rick is felt smiling and laughs over the radio-", charming and nice, with really good ideas. But Roger still lives on the Wall. Until his wall falls down, I can't see him coming back." Richard's voice fades away, sounding rather wistful, the relevant part of the interview ends, the radio is turnt off. Roger has had his soul crushed, all the birds can feel it. They set the liminal space to compressure, as to have Waters not directly remember these events, but to have it agitate the back of his mind, hidden in the subconscious, where the conscious projects that in subtle manners. Twisted and broken, he is spotted with breaking holes, ego dissolved into bits and pieces floating around his person. The final action is to take away _it_ , that being a specific thing that is not mentioned. It is set in motion: things will now change forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Rick Wright interview straight up plagiarized, found here:  
> https://www.brain-damage.co.uk/richard-wright-interviews/november-8th-1996-seven-days-israel-2.html  
> Kind of interesting and I thought it was really sad...


	6. All That Follows is True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though it may seem like it's falling apart, it's coming together.

Rick knew the birds were down to something when Roger failed to be punctual, especially on his own terms. Due to demonstrate, introduce, and record new parts today, Waters had been continuously punctual as to not contradict his own schedule. Rick began to get concerned, as even the perpetually late Erzin scrambled in an hour and a half after everyone else. The band, sans Roger, performed their usual bout of acting very pissed at Bob's lack of sense of time, but the three were more sensitive than usual, aware that Roger was being headhunted by godlike birds, who had made contact with the other three and made them alert of this soon-to-come process. Either that, or they were sharing a bout of synchronized delusion. But time tells truth, and it was seven-thirty a.m.. They were tittering amongst themselves, speculating if Roger had been murdered, or dragged down to hell. It just seemed too contrived to be a coincidence. They had halfhearted concern, which was blossoming into paranoia as the hours slowly began to roll by. If Roger had disappeared, what about production? It would come to a snail's pace, lots of arguments, et cetera. They'd never complete it, and then- and then, they'd all go bankrupt and be living off the streets or (shudder) sharing a flat or something like that, begging for a bitter cup of coffee in the winters, roam around aimlessly in the summers, whatever. Or, it would go okay... not really. They were constantly on alert, and rushed to the reception, like dogs awaiting their owner. Not a great analogy.

Nick was the most worried, as he saw what happened in the incredibly bizarre dream of his. Rick vomited, and now Roger was flailing around somewhere, off his head. As noon came, and they anxiously ate, Erzin resolved that he would go to Waters' residence and check if he was there. After all, he was usually cooped up in there, writing, for a lot of his free time. This gave the other members minimal ground to stand on. Roger had to turn up somewhere.  
"Um... these oysters are good, aren't they?" weakly joked Rick, eating his sandwich.  
Gilmour bat the conversation back; "I think I was high as a kite when they were filming us disgustingly eating oysters, so was Rog." Nick noticed Rog, which Gilmour only used in a friendly context to refer to Waters, when he was a cordial bassist, a cooperative lyricist. Nick had gotten so acclimated to the way Roger acted now, that he forgot that he used to be a completely different person, and could only wonder, what happened?....

Rick laughed. Nick was beginning to swim in thought, and wasn't really paying attention, but David couldn't help but feel a bit strange- when was the last time Rick genuinely laughed? Despite the tense and nervous air, it made Gilmour internally smile. But, what if it had to do with... the birds?

...Nick was not too sure, when was the exact point Roger got all those severe political ideas. Nick didn't want to think of Roger as hostile, but it was the best word to describe him. Gilmour was likely reminiscing on this 'other' Roger that once was, and was calling him Rog in that context. Nick hoped that maybe these birds didn't destroy Roger, but brought him back to... reality. Not that he was schizophrenic like a certain other other Roger, but he was... self-absorbed. Isn't self-absorbed another word for narcissist? No, Roger wasn't that... um... Nick had to admit, the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to say yes. But Roger was still his friend, except a bit less so. Maybe a bit less is an understatement, said an unsolicited thought, but that thought wasn't lying. It was relevant... and Nick hated to see it that way. He suddenly found himself thinking about all those good old times, and why he and Roger became friends in the first place, and how. 

David's look glazed over Nick for a second, and it focused. Nick looked slightly distraught, but also spaced out. What was he thinking? Best not disturb him, he wanted to observe Richard more. No, not like that, he was concerned for him, and engaged with Rick in some loose conversation. Gilmour found himself hypnotized by Rick's abnormally dense eyelashes, reminding him of... some long-eyelashed animal... like a ratite, maybe. No, stop thinking of it in that context, it's not like that at all. No sir, I would swear on the Queen's life. Yes, sir, I am a ladies' man, I like women, that is that, one-two-three, deep breath and forget you even thought that Richard's eyelashes looked like an ostrich's.  
David was also lost in thought by this point, but realized he had a deeply sloped no-teeth, retracted-lips grin, and was laughing into the table quietly.   
Rick was slightly bemused by this strange insanity that was going on around him, being David staring into his soul and then randomly snorting into the table at whatever he found so funny, and Nick being completely absent, gaze staring out into space, but Rick was internally, and mostly outwardly, still steeped in worry.  
Soon, lunch was over, and everyone went back to recording, wondering if Erzin had found Waters yet.

If Roger were present, he'd be confused as to why Wright was being so compliant with his parts and not not doing anything. Everyone, though troubled, were performing quite efficiently, David doing his mischievous thing of changing notes and altering measures, Nick taking inspiration from him and now changing up his rhythms, and Wright practicing (for once, is what Roger would think). Alternately, they'd be going through the same humdrum oppressiveness today, but no. Things were new, foreign, and unusual, allowing for a flow with Waters totally absent. Still, the dark corners lingered in the back of their minds: Where was Erzin?  
At just around two-forty-seven p.m. came a commotion from reception, but the band members didn't notice, because they were in their recording rooms. Of course, the more peaceful day allowed for more musical investment, despite anxiety, so they weren't antsy and milling about between takes. As expected, the disturbance came Roger Waters, who was uninvestedly lashing Erzin. This is because Erzin found him lying on the kitchen floor, unconscious, had gotten in as Waters neglected to lock his door, and attempted to rouse him. Voice, nudge, shouting, slapping. Erzin was just about to call 112 when a new idea came about, last resort. Erzin scoured the freezer for ice cubes, brought them out, filled a glass full of them, impregnated the ice with water from the tap, became nervous, took a deep breath, prayed to God, and quickly splashed the ice water in Roger's face. A raging scream was emanated, and could be heard throughout Berre-Les-Alpes (may or may not be an exaggeration). Took a few moments for Roger to orient himself, real pissed for a few minutes as Erzin shoved him into the car and drove up to Super Bear Studios.

Midway there, Roger let out a spontaneous, horrified gasp. Erzin looked over for a second, seeing the mortified look on Waters' face, and furrowed his brow as he put his eyes back on the winding road up. "What is it?" he inquired.  
"Uh.... um.... ahhhhmmm...." For all that Roger had to say, Erzin thought, this must be pretty bad if he couldn't express it.  
"Wife... thing," Roger spluttered, and out of his peripheral vision, Roger looked cuckoo.   
"You don't need to elaborate if you don't want to," Erzin sighed. He thought it was a little funny, though.  
".....No," said Waters, whose posture had become introverted, and looked somewhat smaller than a whole hundred and ninety (and a half) centimetres. Something had affected him, but it wasn't Erzin's business to ask. They drove in relative silence, Waters seeming to slowly collapse into himself over this duration. By the time they reach the studio, he doesn't act like some strutting pheasant, and his usually assertive stare is severely lacking its usual stringency, sliding and opaque like melting wax. Is that where the differences end? Maybe. Erzin supervises the interactions between the band: Wright being consistently mild and neutral, Nick friendly, Gilmour feeling obliged to fight for his opinions, and Roger ultra-assertive, but today, it seemed to be different. The other band members were barely pretending to be angry, rather they were inquiring what was making Roger so iffy. Waters seemed to resistant to his own height, and instead of using his imposing appearance for further intimidation, he crawled into a mental 'shell' and was sitting down, shrunken more. They were trying to pick his brain for information, Erzin couldn't exactly tell, but he picked up bits through the microphones, dreaming and birds and other strange off-topic things.

Down there, Nick finally tried to take a crack at guessing: "Did it have to do... with your wife?"  
"M," said the near-mute Waters, indicating a 'yes'. Nick was shocked. Oh no. here it was. It was really true, really happening.  
"It had to do with birds, hm?" Nick pressed further. He was worried that he was encroaching upon risky territory, he could have one slip, and fall down the mountain. His heartbeat quickened as Roger slowly turned his head towards Nick, an alerted expression clear as day, sinuous blue gaze penetrating his very soul, just as in the dream. They seemed to be electrified, suspended, and the dark came and closed in.  
"How did you know?" shattered it and brought Nick back to reality. Blinking, disorientated, Nick was going to respond when David came in with  
"The birds told us in multimedia formats. Two dreams and a phone call, what about you?"

Bob observed this strange moment happening within the band, and watched with interest. They seemed to be engaging in the lost art of casual conversation, if you could call intense and mystifying stares casual. More 'birds', 'dreams'.

"Well, they, I heard about them... I think... I saw them for a bit," said Roger, looking like he was desperately trying to remember something. "I... I can remember them... after... after Carolyn, um...." It hurt to think about, the memory within itself was torturous. Being hit with negative revelation after negative revelation, then being called an ugly horse, to never see someone again. Roger blinked hard, something damp in his eyes.... foreign something. He felt like he was in a cesspool of despair, but just couldn't size up to the situation. What is one supposed to do when they learn their personal life has amounted to nothing?

The others watched as Roger's eyes became watery (pun unintended), and as tears rolled down, it looked as if he wasn't sure what they were, like a disease or something showing symptoms. He wiped his face, and saw the saline eye solution, he exclaimed "Uh!" and turned an embarrassed shade of red, disappearing in a blur. The other members of the band were as confused. "I think I haven't seen him cry in four years," murmured Mason.  
"Last time?" inquired Gilmour.  
"Syd incident..." sighed Nick.   
Either Roger was going to clam up and be ultra-stringent for his accidental vulnerability, but the others were intrigued if he was actually going to be a person. This was bizarre occurrence for the Floyd. What now, they wondered, would their dictator band mate do? 

Meanwhile, Roger was in the restrooms, hiding in a stall out of sheer embarrassment. Things in his head were clashing, conflicting. What if they made fun of him? What if people found out? Most importantly, would they take him less seriously? Was he to be taken seriously? Could he, even? He became angry at the thoughts; these were juvenile, of course, he could just reassert himself. And... who the hell was Dorian Eider? Not an engineer here or at Miraval. 

He realized he wasn't in the state to reassert himself. He felt he had been deteriorated to his namesake, he felt watery, unstable. He didn't want to do these theatrics right now. He was tired of all of this, so tired. Insecurities that he thought had been sealed opened up like a poorly sewn wound. What was he doing? Did he even have enough strength to complete this? Could he? And what, how did the others feel? Did he consider? No, of course not, after Dark Side, they were business partners. For one more album, they were cogs in a well-oiled machine, peas in a pod, birds of a feather. Then, the oil began to run out, the cogs became slower and rustier. As of now, they barely moved at all, once shining steel was now lumpy red-orange.

Roger sighed.

Was he overthinking? Or was this empathy? Was Roger lacking empathy? No... No? He was really being dragged down by that stone now. Was this music, or art therapy? His work was very personal, and he felt a defensive attachment to it. He understood why, but less so now, feeling weaker, and rather his priorities were to protect himself rather than this album. Some of him floundered around, remembering the vultures that were going to whittle at it and ruin it. But was it really like that? Or was he instinctively stupid? Stupid. The word was rude, abrasive, but unwarranted thoughts bombarded him: You're rude and abrasive, aren't you, Waters? Do you understand that other people are autonomous, and your thought is not universal? No, because you're acting simple-minded, a bully, no more.  
Stop. Stop! He didn't want this kind of regime anymore, could he just work? He'll beg. He'll beg and kneel, grovel like a sheep. He'll do... anything.  
Come on. Grown men won't make fun of you... they're grown men. Mature. Of course.  
With a new but thin resolve, he braced himself, and left the restrooms. Just... pretend that nothing happened. Don't be that shy. You're not that insecure, are you?  
Well, he was ashamed to say he maybe was. He became somewhat more reclusive, not wanting to talk with anyone who witnessed it, and that included producer Erzin. Working with Guthrie was suddenly awkward, because the hot young producer had quickly learned to adapt to Waters' strictness. Roger had built a regime out of a tower of cards. His sharp tongue was dulled by lots of 'ums' and 'uhs' especially at a time feeling..... incredibly insecure. It felt like trying to work on a solo album, if he'd just finished working on something like Piper. Roger felt, not like a symbiote with the producers, but wanting to regroup with the band members, run to safety, something like that. He felt singled out, isolated.   
Mother, can I come under your wing?   
No, son, I can't forgive you.

"Er... maybe Gil- David, um, has some insight on this part. I- I know what I want on here, but, um, he's....... better at guitar, so maybe he can... pr- procure, a , ah, an b- improved... idea."   
Guthrie was looking at him unusually, likely sensing something was very, very off, but not wanting to interfere, nodded..   
"...He's busy in Studio A right now, but I'll call him up here so you... two can work something out."  
This was very strange to deal with, but Roger was all of a sudden inclined to build bridges, not.... burn them. He was questioning his sanity by now, either way, thinking What was I doing and alternately, What am I doing? The two contrasting thoughts clashed against each other, one saying You're not keeping your album's integrity by allowing the others to rip it apart, but that voice was much smaller than YOUR ALBUM? Under the Pink Floyd name? It should be obligatory that you let the others (meaning besides producers) collaborate. This is not your dragon horde, if you want a solo album, go work on... that leftover content once you're done.

This indecision made him act very erratic, being all sharp and strict when going through bouts of lack of self-awareness, then he became... the quiet bassist, maybe, is what the others thought, but he was very sensitive, and could lash out if they weren't careful. Then he would apologize very awkwardly, and frequently tripped over his words, seemed anxious. Very... unlike... Roger. And Rick, through his observations, found that Roger seemed to observe them more, being that he was suddenly terse and muted. But he had to admit, it was a improvement from... the other Roger. Rick still was on alert, since Roger tended to swing between dictator and crippling introvert. It all had to do with those birds, and from what Nick told David and Rick, it was that Carolyn had done something awful, being that she told Roger he wasn't the children's' father, and then disappeared into the dark of the night with them, practicing all the goods: Divorce, name-changing, house-selling, et. cetera. This was abrupt, unexpected, so Roger was deteriorating quickly into a vague instability. Instead of completely withdrawing, he was still inclined to work (predictably), but was more shy, and but still bold enough, or more bold than originally, to request contribution from the actual band members and not hide in an echo chamber, sparring with the producers.  
As Rick was contemplating, staring through Roger's bizarre features, a song from a distant septennial time came to surface in his mind:

The doorway stands ajar  
The walls that once were high  
Beyond the gilded cage  
Beyond the reach of ties  
The moment is at hand  
She breaks the golden band

Seemed more relevant than ever. But who would 'she' be? Well, the birds, out of their 'cage'. Not that you would ever have those monstrous things in any semblance of a cage, more like a house converted into an aviary, the other way around, or a plain house, considering their sentience. The others had not noted that they were like a metre and a half tall. He found that strange.

"Why did we execute separate decisions?" sighed Parfol, preening his feathers. The birds were sitting 'round the Tetrahedron, their idea of a campfire. In the woodland equivalent of the fourth dimension, where everything grew distended and volute, geometric and all that fancy stuff. They were hiding out because of fourth-dimensional rule-breakage, direct interference with third-dimensional time and space. Yes, 4-D has laws. Llllots. They could have their human-model sentience revoked, and be thrown back into the cycle of each species' respective lives.

You set sail across the sea  
Of long past thoughts and memories.  
Childhood's end, your fantasies  
Merge with harsh realities.  
And then as the sail is hoist,  
You find your eyes are growing moist.  
All the fears never voiced  
Say you have to make your final choice.

Not very rubbish songwriter, David Jon Gilmour. General context then, specific context now. But it seemed everyone forgot about Obscured By Clouds. Well, of course, between Dark Side (most famous album of the more recent years) and Echoes (most famous album of the earlier years) Obscured by Clouds.... really did live up to its name.

Morning dues  
Newborn day  
Midnight blue  
Turned to gray

Midnight blue  
Burning gold  
A yellow moon  
Is growing cold

His own song. Right. What was relevant about that? Nothing... Did Rick have anything relevant to say? Not really, he made music. Loose thoughts tumbled around, and he was wondering if he should practice singing sometime, or if he was really motivated to write a song in lyrics and/or compositions, and then he was thinking about salmon... What was the focused, ultimate thought?  
Well, Rick was motivated to contribute. But a through struck him...  
Looking down at his hands, a flash of being wonderfully spaced out as to suddenly disassociate and briefly think, Or did the birds do something to me? He was oblivious until now. Previously, he felt stale, inert all the time, not wanting to do anything in terms of work, but something had changed. Rick thought it was only Roger, but something clearly affected him, and it had to be in the way of those beings. He found himself forgetting about his separating wife and children. Where did they go? Already, the thought began slipping from his mind, he trying to grab on, but he found himself... not caring. His concern came from not caring and not the base issue itself, but it was a superficial connection, He was trying to re-link the three things together, but it felt like the chain had been severed at wife and children. What were their names again? He felt like he barely knew them, and more experiences' meanings were being drained of meaning as he thought, and not much later, he felt like the memories were from another person, not knowing the context. 

When Roger walked in, it seemed the room had dimmed, and the center of gravity was Rick, who had an intensely frustrated look on his face, flat eyebrows comically near-diagonal.  
"Um, Roger?" Rick looked around with a suspicious expression, then looked at Roger. "Do I have a wife? Do I have children?" What? It had been a definitive source of frustration that Rick was pining for his kids, and he just.... forgot?  
The birds.  
"Er, yes, Richard, you do have a family," said Roger, dry and tinged with disbelief.   
"Should- should I call them, or something?"  
"Sure, if you want to. I don't know their number, though."   
Rick squinted, looking dazed. "It's the birds," he hissed. "What did they do now?"  
Why am I not that motivated to care? The birds, of course. They took away something... what was it again?  
Roger looked at Rick, whose expression had gone neutral, gaze waxy. "Um, Rick?"  
Rick snapped aware, blinking rapidly with raised eyebrows. "What were we talking about again?"  
"Your wife and children."  
"Ah... right... What are their names again? Who are they?"  
"You... you seriously don't remember?" said Roger, exasperated.  
"No," was the blunt answer.  
"James, Gala, your children and wife, Julie? No? Nothing?"   
"I cannot recall. It's those birds! All I can remember is divorce and negative facets."  
"Well," Roger sighed, "I don't know too much about them, you're unfortunate. At least your wife is aware, my... ex-wife... y'know..." Trailing off after treading on sore spots, felt like going for another cry, but resisted.  
"Well, familial issues for the both of us," sighed Rick.   
"I need a smoke right now," sighed Roger.   
"Have you ever considered quitting smoking?" asked Rick, on the contrary pawning a rouge Camel carton from the table, that was just lying there.  
"No, why? There's not much reason to," Roger replied. "Well, maybe, I heard that it can ruin your voice.... not that mine was very good in the first place. And things like... cancer, maybe? It's not proven, though."  
"I tried to smoke yesterday, but it just made me cough spastically, for some reason," said Rick, continuing to contradict himself by pulling a cigarette out of the box. "I don't think I enjoy it much anymore," He examined the cigarette for a few seconds, then stopped the perpetuation of contradiction by gifting it to Roger.   
"Er, thank you," said Roger, followed by the offering of a light.  
However, when trying to smoke the cigarette, on the first inhale, the smoke burned him throat, and he began coughing, hard, reminding him of the first time he had smoked. "What the-" he spluttered as he coughed. "...How?"

"May be the birds," sighed Rick, "They told me that smoking was carcinogenic, or something like that. Anyway, with the added advantage of removed habituation, I guess I can stop now."   
"Yeah-" Roger hacked- "Me, too." He extinguished the cigarette in the accommodating ashtray. "I think I'll take a break."  
They sat there in silence for a minute or so.  
"I'm going to work with David. He composed a brilliant solo, so we're going to discuss recording that... er, see you later, Richard."

He leaves the break room. Rick is left to stumble around in his own thoughts. He and Roger never got along, even before Animals and The Wall, particularly well. They didn't really communicate, being that Roger had a big personality (made even more so by his inflated ego [now punctured]), and Richard was self-contained. Was this deliberation on the birds' part? Quite possibly. Did they want to ease ever-lodging tensions? Why would they be so inclined to? Another question surfaced: why were they so inclined to mend the band? Everything, the manipulations, events, dreams, and all were in working order, and Rick could see that the band was abruptly mending, but it seemed odd, contrived and natural at the same time. Roger was reverting to a '71-ish kind of state, occasionally spiking forward to the present, and Rick was aware that his memories of a relationship and family were being washed away. Nick and David were kind of spectators, at least for now... maybe they were going through things they didn't tell, or didn't recognize were on the birds.   
He was busy hammering on the synth for the parts in Goodbye Blue Sky, and was wondering if he could extend some parts to work in conjunction with the guitar as well as the preordained accents to emphasize dread. 

Roger still lives on his Wall. Until his wall falls down, I don't see him coming back...  
Roger looked around. He thought he heard a whisper, it sounded like Rick. But Rick wasn't there, just him, Erzin, and Gilmour.

But that was just a burning memory, wasn't it? What burning memory? Was it being incinerated, or was it dying for him, burning for him to get to it? What was the past, what is the future?  
Roger was momentarily absent, and then realized Gilmour was already inside the recording area, playing the solo, pausing, making alterations, and Waters followed suit. He was feeling exuberantly peaceful, compared to what had followed before. The other band members had prickly radiations of suspicion, Roger felt strange, and he wondered where his vigor had gone. It was a harmful vigor, like how fire burns, he thought. It wasn't good for anybody but your album. This wasn't his album anymore. He had already given it to the 'public', it was developing into something in the band's possession. Where would it go now? Demos should never be finished products.  
This was confusing. Roger was a human being, not something to be meddled with like a clay figure. But that's all he really was?   
He was just waiting to give in, to bow down to normalcy and get out of these acidic politics. And something let him out. Thanks to the birds, he guessed.  
"But he never did," muses Sigmund, reading Roger's thoughts as the birds stalk him on the telephone poles and handsome linden tree. "Well, not without our interference. We did the work. What's next?"  
"Have you ever read the abominations that are Archive of Our Own explicits?" the swan jokes.  
"Sigmund, no one would ever be insane enough to do that in base reality," laughs Parfol. "I would never. Disgusting."  
"Is this foreshadowing?" snorted Dorian, and they burst into peals of squawking, croaking bird laughter.

Roger, who was becoming quite lethargic, it being around midnight, was disturbed by these noises, and walked to the window to see a very odd sight.  
What the hell? Sigmund hears in Roger's thoughts, head snapping to look at the window. It finds itself seeing Roger's silhouette, hisses, "He's seen us!", and they fly off, one after another, then disappear into the fourth dimension.   
Roger wasn't very clear as to what he saw, but the large outlines of some kind of birds.  
Were they watching me?  
Roger closes the curtains.   
All that has happened is true, it's not a dream. Actions here have consequences. Why didn't I think before? Mostly because I feel as if I am going mad.  
Tomorrow brings another day, another day like this.   
This is the strangest life I've ever known.  
Roger sighed, shook his head, and decided it was time that he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (That is NOT foreshadowing, I don't think I'll include ships in this story)


End file.
